


that little kiss you stole (held all my heart and soul)

by symphony7inAmajor



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Confession, Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, First Dates, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Love at First Sight, M/M, Nicknames, idiots to lovers, kc and janny performing mischief, kind of, this is literally just goofy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22896202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symphony7inAmajor/pseuds/symphony7inAmajor
Summary: “Thanks,” Mason says. “Love you.”There’s a brief silence.“Oh,” Mason says, “oh my god, I’m sorry—”The guy bursts out laughing, bright and clear. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, still giggling, “I promise I’ve heard worse.” He pauses. “Bye, love you, too.” Then he hangs up.(mason seems to have a penchant for embarrassing himself in front of cute guys.)
Relationships: Mason Appleton/Jack Roslovic
Comments: 17
Kudos: 116





	that little kiss you stole (held all my heart and soul)

**Author's Note:**

> quick admission here i DID borrow this general concept from a tiktok. however the tiktok in question had a call about toe fungus removal and i was craving pizza at the time, so. yeah.
> 
> i said "miranda applejack is your invention but they have been so cute lately so you MUST found their tag before i write my own thing" and she came through. thank you miranda you're my hero.
> 
> title from "heart and soul" by the four aces

Mason’s last lecture of the week drags on for what feels like hours too long, even though it’s only an extra fifteen minutes, so by the time he shuffles into his apartment, the last thing he wants to think about is cooking.

He flops facedown on his couch and groans despairingly into the cushions. He’s hungry but, like, effort. 

It is, however, a Friday night. It’s always easier to convince himself to spend money on Friday nights.

He fumbles for his phone and looks up the nearby pizza place’s phone number. It’s not healthy, sure, but it’s delicious. And convenient.

The phone rings and he yawns, so wide that his jaw makes a gross cracking noise. His next blink threatens to last too long and he has to force his eyes back open. He just wants to eat some pizza, maybe watch some shitty TV, and go to sleep for twelve hours.

It’s been a long week.

Someone picks up the phone. “Hi!” Wow. Right off the bat, this guy is way too cheery sounding. Like, next level customer service cheerful. And on a Friday night? He keeps talking. “This is Wheeler’s Pizza. What can I get for you today?” 

“Um,” Mason says. His mind is suddenly blank. “Uh.”

The expectant silence from his phone is interrupted by a tiny, almost-muffled giggle.

Mason frowns. “Pepperoni,” he says firmly. Then, “Large.” He’ll keep any leftovers for later, not that there are likely to be any. “Please.”

“Anything else?”

Mason can practically _ hear _ this guy’s smile. After his miserable week and even more miserable day when all he wants to do is feel pathetic for a little while, it’s making him feel extra pitiful. In a jealous sort of way.

“Just Pepsi,” he says. He only barely stops himself from sighing mournfully.

“Is Coke alright?”

This time, he really can’t stop his sigh. “Yeah,” he says, glum, “that’s fine.”

“Okay!” There’s a pause, like the guy is putting his order down. “Name and street address?”

“Mason,” says Mason, and he gives his address.

Another pause. “Awesome!” says the guy on the phone. It’s like everything he says has an exclamation mark attached to the end. “That’ll be about twenty minutes.”

“Thanks,” Mason says, because while he might be feeling miserable, he does have manners. Then he screws it all up. “Love you.”

There’s a brief silence when the guy doesn’t respond and it takes Mason a second to realize why that is.

“Oh,” Mason says, “oh my god, I’m sorry—”

The guy bursts out laughing, bright and clear. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, still giggling, “I promise I’ve heard worse.” He pauses. “Bye, love you, too.” Then he hangs up.

Mason keeps holding his phone to his ear like he’s expecting something else to happen, then, slowly, he lowers his phone and stares at the dark screen. He blinks a few times, suddenly feeling extremely awake.

“Uh,” he says carefully, “what the fuck.”

He rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling, one arm draped over his belly and the other over his head. He watches a housefly meander across the ceiling and wonders if it wouldn’t be better to live as a housefly.

Houseflies don’t have to endure humiliating themselves in front of others. Probably.

Okay, it wasn’t actually _ in front of _ whoever is taking calls at Wheeler’s, but come on. Mason will never be able to show his face there ever again. The guy probably told all of his coworkers as soon as he hung up.

Mason wonders how expensive it would be to change his name and move to, like, Antarctica.

He’s still considering the logistics of witness protection program when there’s a knock at the door.

He shuffles to answer, aware that he looks like a disaster, and opens the door to reveal a guy with long ginger hair under a black baseball cap. The cap has a blue wheel logo on the front. He’s balancing a pizza box and a plastic bag and a chip reader and still managing to look more or less chill.

“Hi,” Mason says, eying him with some concern.

“Sup,” the guy says agreeably. He’s definitely not the same guy Mason was talking to on the phone—not that Mason expected him to be, obviously. He holds out the chip reader.

Mason tries not to look him in the eyes while he pays, too embarrassed to talk to someone who probably knows all about his stupid conversation. Mason hands the chip reader back and takes his food.

“Thank you,” Mason says. “Have a good night.”

“You, too,” the delivery guy says. He smirks. “Bye, lover boy.”

Mason squeaks, face flushing, but the guy is already halfway down the hall and Mason doesn’t want to worry his neighbours by yelling after him. He shuts the door and mutters to himself grumpily, cardboard crumpling beneath his fingers.

He hates his life.

He opens the pizza box to see a drawing of a heart on the inside of the lid. In Sharpie.

Despite himself, he smiles.

He tells himself that it’s only the delicious smell of pizza that makes him smile.

Later, once he’s eaten enough pizza to put a lesser man into a coma and he’s lying slightly less miserably on the couch, he wonders about the guy on the phone. He turns his head and looks at the clumsily drawn heart inside the box.

Something like fondness bubbles in his chest. Yeah, it’s cute, whatever.

He doesn’t know anything about the guy, besides where he works and that he’s kind of goofy and maybe a bit of a flirt and he has a cute laugh—and that’s enough of that, Mason decides, rolling off the couch and onto the floor in an effort to think of something else.

It doesn’t really work, but the hardwood is uncomfortable enough that he gets up before too long to clean up and take a shower.

He wonders what the guy looks like. He knows it’s stupid, because they had one conversation about pizza that ended with Mason making a fool of himself, but he can’t help thinking about it. He’s not even drunk, which would’ve at least given him an excuse for his stupid behaviour. All he’s had to drink tonight is lukewarm Coke and he is, tragically, cold sober.

He decides his homework can wait until tomorrow to start. He probably wouldn’t do a great job right now anyway, as tired as he is, so he crawls into bed and curls up in a ball, hoping that his shitty week feels further away when he wakes up tomorrow.

He pulls his blankets up to his chin and squeezes his eyes shut, burrowing deeper into his pillows. His apartment always feels just a bit too cold at night.

If he dreams about the sound of the pizza guy’s laugh, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

Mason doesn’t leave his apartment the next day. He moves between his kitchen table, his couch and his desk with his laptop, occasionally taking breaks for snacks and to refill his water glass, but he stays focused on his work for most of the day.

By the time the sun is setting, his head hurts and there’s an uncomfortable burning behind his eyes, but he’s made significant progress on his term paper and he feels much better. He takes a congratulatory walk around the block, ignoring the minus-twenty five degree wind chill.

Well, he tries to ignore it. An extra-strong gust blasts him in the face and stings his skin, sending him hurrying through the nearest door. He scrubs his hands over his face.

The wind made his eyes tear up, then the cold froze the tears, leaving a layer of ice on his eyelashes. He blinks a couple times, then looks around.

He’s ended up in Wheeler’s pizza place. The air is warm and it smells like dough and garlic. It’s nice.

Unfortunately, he can’t forget his embarrassing interaction with the guy on the phone. His best hope is that he isn’t working tonight, or the ginger delivery man who would absolutely recognize him.

The guy at the cash is looking at him strangely, which reminds Mason that he had leaped inside, partially in tears, then stood by the door while trying to clean his face. That was probably a little disturbing to watch.

Mason blushes, though it’s hard to tell because his cheeks are so red from the cold. It would probably look stupid to turn around and head right back out, so he walks up to the cash.

“Hi,” says the cashier. “What can I get for you?” He’s definitely not the same guy Mason talked to on the phone. His voice is different, for one thing, but his smile is small and polite in the way that bare minimum customer service smiles tend to be.

Mason thinks the guy on the phone would have a real, cheerful smile. He bets that a smile like that would warm him right up.

It’s probably weird to imagine that about a guy he’s never met.

Mason blinks. “Mozzarella sticks, please,” he says. “And a coffee?” The coffee is probably shitty, but he wants something hot to drink before he has to go back outside.

The cashier rings him up and gives him a number, even though Mason is the only customer in the building. Mason shuffles over to one of the small tables, taking off his toque and unzipping his coat while he waits.

He pulls out his phone, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram and answering a few texts. He glances up a few times, but the only person at the counter remains the cashier.

About five minutes after Mason placed his order, there’s a terrible crashing sound from the back of the restaurant that makes both Mason and the cashier jump in alarm. Somebody yells something incoherent and the cashier looks between Mason and the back room.

“Uh, is everything okay back there?” he calls.

There’s a brief silence. A moment later, a guy hurries out of the back with a startled look on his face. His eyes are wide in alarm. For a heartstopping second, Mason thinks he’s bleeding, but it’s just tomato sauce.

“Sorry, Janny,” the guy says, sounding out of breath. “The microwave caught on fire again.”

The cashier—Janny?—puts his head in his hands and groans. “Just watch the cash, Rosie,” he says, something despairing in his voice, then he walks to the back with his shoulders slumped.

Mason, meanwhile, has not moved since this new guy first spoke. He’s hoping that if he keeps totally still, the guy he accidentally confessed his love to won’t notice that he’s there.

Especially because the guy is _ cute. _

He looks to be about Mason’s age, with curly brown hair trying valiantly to fight free of his uniform cap. His big brown eyes are framed by long, dark eyelashes. Worst of all, he has a single mole on his cheek that Mason, like, _ really _ wants to kiss.

Mason stops himself from banging his forehead off the table.

“Oh, hey!” The guy—Rosie says. He’s looking, unfortunately, directly at Mason. “Mozzarella sticks, right?”

Mason nods wordlessly. He doesn’t know if Rosie will recognize his voice, but he doesn’t want to take that chance.

Rosie doesn’t seem perturbed by his silence. “I didn’t set the microwave on fire, by the way,” he says. He props his elbows on the counter, showing off _ very _ nice arms, and bats his eyelashes at Mason. “It just does that sometimes. Wheels ordered a new one, but delivery is slow as hell.” He sighs, shrugs. “Keeps us on our toes, though.” He laughs.

Mason can’t help his grin. Rosie’s laughter is infectious. It seems to light up his face, showing off his straight white teeth.

“So,” Rosie says, dragging out the vowel. “Why’d you come here at,” he checks the time, “ten o’clock when it’s, like, thirty below?”

Oh dear. Mason can’t not respond to a direct question, not if he doesn’t want Rosie to think he’s an asshole. He bites the inside of his cheek and opens his mouth to reply—

“Rosie, stop harassing our customers,” Janny says, returning to the cash. He frowns.

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” Rosie whines. He glances back at Mason and _ winks. _

Mason wants to curl into a ball and die. His mozzarella sticks make him feel a little bit better. 

He can’t help but watch the entrance to the back of the restaurant and hope for another glimpse of Rosie, and he can’t help but feel disappointed when he doesn’t come back out.

Now that Mason actually knows what Rosie looks like, it’s a lot harder to stop thinking about him. He lies in bed, the sheets freezing on his skin thanks to the shitty heating, and he thinks about Rosie’s smile.

_ God, _he wants to kiss that mole.

Mason lasts one week before he calls Wheeler’s again, waiting until almost the last possible minute before calling to order.

And, okay, he doesn’t really _ last _the week, he just couldn’t spare the money to order a pizza every night. Whatever.

Rosie answers the phone with the same cheerful greeting as last time.

“Hi,” Mason says, “can I get—”

Rosie gasps. “Lover Boy!” Something about the way he says it makes it sound like a title.

“I, um. Yes?” Mason isn’t sure how to respond. After all, he’s probably only got this title because Rosie’s been talking about him. Mason isn’t sure if he should feel embarrassed or not.

“Wow,” Rosie says, kind of breathless, “hi.”

Someone yells in the background. It’s mostly incomprehensible, but Mason catches the last part. “—flirting with customers.”

“Sorry,” Rosie mumbles. He sounds chastened. “Uh, what can I get for you?”

Mason doesn’t _ like _ the way his voice sounds right now, awkward and stiff and very much unsmiling. “Large pepperoni, please,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “I liked the heart. Um. Last time.”

Rosie giggles. “Really?” he says. He clears his throat and raises his voice. “Will that be everything, sir?”

“Um, yes, please,” Mason says.

“Sorry, Janny keeps frowning at me,” Rosie says in a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t think he’d get it if I told him you started it.”

“Started what?” Mason has a pretty good idea, but he doesn’t want to make any assumptions. He’s already embarrassed himself enough.

“You know, flirting,” Rosie says easily. “I mean, you _ did _ tell me you love me. That’s, like, destiny.” It sounds like he’s grinning, a teasing tone in his voice when he speaks to Mason that makes something warm flutter in his chest.

“Well,” Mason says, fumbling a bit for words with the image of Rosie’s brilliant smile in his head. He coughs. “You don’t even know what I look like. I could be ugly or, you know, an old creep.”

“Nah,” Rosie says breezily, “KC told me you’re hot. Plus, you don’t sound like an old man.”

Mason almost asks who KC is before remembering the delivery man. _ Lover boy. _He wrinkles his nose, but he figures he should be at least a little bit grateful. After all, KC could’ve told Rosie the opposite.

“Besides,” Rosie adds, “I could say the same thing.”

“Er.” Mason winces. “About that.”

Rosie is quiet, waiting expectantly for Mason to explain himself.

“We kind of, uh. Met?” Mason hurries to explain. “Last week, that night when you set the microwave on fire.” 

“Okay, first of all, I did _ not _ set any microwaves on fire so jot that down,” Rosie says, “and second of all, are you serious? Hot Ginger Guy?” The way he says that makes it sound like a title, too.

“How many different nicknames do you have for me?” Mason asks, not sure if he wants to know.

Rosie scoffs. “As many as you have secret identities, _ Mason,” _ he says snippily. “Anyway, you’d better not be ordering this pizza for delivery.” He’s not very good at threatening, but it’s the thought that counts.

“Are you allowed to speak to customers like that?” Mason teases.

“Yes,” Rosie says.

“No,” Janny says loudly in the background.

“Oh, shut up,” Rosie says. “I’m trying to flirt, would you go away?”

There’s a pause on Rosie’s end. Mason has the grim thought that Rosie and Janny are making faces at each other.

“So?” Rosie says, presumably once Janny is gone. “If you order delivery, I’ll ask KC to throw it through your window like a Frisbee.” He hesitates. “Um, unless you don’t want—”

“I do!” Mason interrupts, maybe too quickly and too loudly, but he doesn’t want Rosie to feel like he’s wrong about this. “I do,” he repeats, quieter. “Like, I can’t afford to fix my window if he breaks it, so—”

Rosie laughs. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “For the window, obviously.”

“Of course,” Mason agrees. “No other reason.” He smiles.

“Oh my god.” Mason has only spoken to KC once, but he recognizes his voice right away. “Is that Lover Boy? You look like an idiot.” There’s a brief silence, then KC shrieks and yells something quite unrepeatable at Rosie.

“That’ll teach him,” Rosie says smugly. “Anyway. Your pizza will be ready in twenty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Mason says. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Count on it, Lover Boy,” Rosie says, and the line goes dead.

Mason rubs his palms over his face, trying to scrub off the goofy grin he’s wearing. He shouldn’t be this excited about the prospect of getting to properly speak to a guy he’s only talked to a handful of times, but he can’t help it.

He walks to Wheeler’s, making sure to dress appropriately for the weather this time. He also makes sure to change out of his old jeans and the hoodie that has a suspicious looking stain on it. He doesn’t get _ dressed up, _but he doesn’t want to look like he’s not making an effort.

He studies his reflection and, satisfied, heads outside.

He takes the shorter route to the pizza place, even though his pizza won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes or so.

The bell above the door jingles when he steps inside, making the two guys at the counter look up. Janny is at the cash again, and KC is standing nearby with a cup of water in his hand. Both of them look surprised to see him.

“Hot Ginger Guy!” exclaims Janny.

“Lover Boy!” KC gasps at the same time. 

The two of them frown at each other. 

“Wait,” Janny says.

“Hot Ginger Guy is Lover Boy?” KC looks shocked, but he recovers quickly. “Ah. I guess that makes sense.” He looks at Janny curiously. “Does that mean I can be Hot Ginger Guy again?” he asks.

“Were you ever?” Janny asks, then leaps away before KC can dump his water cup over his head.

“Guys, what’s—um. Oh. Whoa.” Rosie has stepped out of the kitchen area and he’s staring right at Mason. His cheeks are pink. “Hi,” he says, a little breathy.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” KC mutters. “You suck.”

“Uh huh,” Rosie says. “I’m taking my break now, guys.” He doesn’t take his eyes off Mason. 

“Of course you are,” Janny grumbles, but he doesn’t look _ that _ upset.

KC and Janny head into the back without too much more griping, but Mason thinks he hears KC say, “Didn’t he already take his break?”

Mason doesn’t really pay that any attention. He’s too distracted by the mole on Rosie’s cheek and his soft brown eyes and his tentative smile and his—

“Hi,” Rosie says again. He’s blushing. Rosily. He’s adorable.

“Hi,” Mason says. He swallows hard. “Do you want to, um. Sit with me?” 

Rosie’s smile widens. “Yeah,” he says. “That’d be great.” He waits for Mason to pick a table before stepping out from behind the counter and sitting across from him. He rests his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

Mason’s throat feels dry. His head is blank, like all his thoughts have flown out his ears now that Rosie’s so close.

“Are you gonna say anything?” Rosie asks, tipping his head to the side.

Mason starts. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, you’re just, like.” He blushes.

Rosie raises an eyebrow and leans forward. “I’m just, like, what?” he asks.

“You’re really cute,” Mason blurts.

When Rosie grins, he does it with his whole face. His eyes crinkle and the tip of his tongue pokes out from between his teeth, and Mason feels like his entire body is on fire.

“Thanks,” Rosie says, kicking Mason’s ankle under the table. He leaves his foot there, light pressure alongside Mason’s. Rosie smiles mischievously and adds, “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

Mason relaxes the longer he sits with Rosie. He’s easy to talk to, once Mason gets past feeling so flustered every time he smiles. “Well, you did nickname me Hot Ginger Guy, didn’t you?” he asks.

“I am choosing not to answer that,” Rosie says with dignity. “Hey, wait, you don’t even know my name, but I know _ three _ of yours.”

“Okay, technically, Hot Ginger Guy and Lover Boy are names you gave me,” Mason says, “and I know you’re Rosie.” 

Rosie makes a face. “Well, yeah, but that’s not my real name. It’s just like the names we gave you.” He holds a hand out. “Jack Roslovic.”

Mason takes his hand and shakes it, grinning. “Mason Appleton,” he says, even though Jack already knows that. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Jack says, and, real casual, keeps holding Mason’s hand over the tabletop.

Real casual, Mason brushes his thumb back and forth over Jack’s knuckles. Jack’s hand is warm and soft in Mason’s. They sit together for a few minutes, mostly not saying anything and just gazing into each other’s eyes, then KC comes out of the kitchen with a box in one hand and a large cup in the other and sets both objects down with a little more force than strictly necessary. 

KC bows exaggeratedly, backing away from the table before going back to the kitchen. “You’re staying to help clean up when we close, Rosie!” he calls over his shoulder.

Jack giggles and slides his hand out of Mason’s so he can open the box. He makes a soft noise, and looks at Mason through his eyelashes.

“What is it?” Mason asks, taking the box so he can spin it towards himself.

The pepperoni has been artfully placed in a heart shape. Mason can’t help his smile. 

“Cute,” he says.

“They’re assholes,” Jack says, and Mason knows he’s talking about KC and Janny, “but they do have _ some _ style.” He narrows his eyes. “You’re not allowed to tell them that, though.” 

“Of course not,” Mason agrees, unwrapping the two straws and putting them in the Coke cup. “My lips are sealed.” He takes a sip through his straw and watches Jack’s eyes drop to his mouth. It’s hard not to smirk, but he manages.

They split the pizza and the Coke, and Jack hooks his ankle properly around Mason’s under the table, and Mason covers his mouth when he laughs at something Jack says so he doesn’t spit pizza all over the table. That only makes Jack more determined to get him to laugh harder.

Jack catches his straw between his teeth and grins at Mason around it, and Mason suddenly feels much less like laughing.

Time flies by while they talk. They sit together long after they finish eating, and it’s not until KC switches the lights off and on again that Mason checks the time to find that it’s been almost an hour.

KC looks exasperated, but sort of fond at the same time. “We’ve got this,” he says. “You can go now, Rosie.”

Jack beams at him, making something almost like jealousy twist in Mason’s belly before he tells himself he’s being an idiot. “I’ll be right back,” Jack says, hurrying to the back of the restaurant. 

He’s gone for a few minutes, but he’s changed into street clothes when he comes back. He’s wearing jeans under a sweater and coat, a floppy toque over his curls and a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

“I know a place close by if you want to get dessert,” Jack says. He smiles shyly. “On me?”

“It’s a date,” Mason says, and he reaches out to take Jack’s hand when they step outside. 

Jack squeezes his hand and leads him down the street. The only light comes from the the orange street lamps, casting soft shadows on Jack’s face. Mason gets so distracted by the sight that when Jack jerks him sharply to the side, he has no idea what’s going on.

“Mason,” Jack says, “why are you trying to walk into signposts?”

Mason looks back. There’s a bus stop sign a few paces back now, and Mason was paying so little attention that he must have almost walked into it. “I was looking at you,” Mason says, only half-apologetic. “You’re very distracting.”

Jack looks suddenly flustered. “Ah,” he says, “well. I guess that’s a good excuse.”

Mason feels tremendously proud of himself for turning the tables and flustering Jack.

“Stop it,” Jack says, whiny.

“I didn’t say anything,” Mason protests.

“No, not with your words,” Jack says, waving his free hand at Mason, “just, like, your face.” 

Mason grins at him. 

“Shut up,” Jack says, and that’s definitely a whine this time. “I take it back, I don’t love you. You suck.” It’s pretty unconvincing; he’s still holding Mason’s hand.

“Aw,” Mason says, putting on a tragic face and failing spectacularly because his lips won’t stop twitching. “You don’t love me anymore?”

“No,” Jack says. “Absolutely not. I hate you, actually.” He glances up. “Oh, hey, we’re here.” He pulls Mason into the little twenty-four hour diner on the corner that Mason has seen, but never been to. “Their waffles are the _ best,” _ Jack gushes, apparently forgetting his declaration of hatred only moments ago.

They split a plate of waffles, struggling a bit since the short walk was nowhere near long enough to make Mason feel hungry again after the pizza, but they’re two strapping young men and haven’t yet outgrown their seemingly bottomless stomachs. They make it happen, even with the excessive amounts of maple syrup and whipped cream.

Like, the waffles _ are _ extremely tasty.

Jack looks sleepy when they’re finished eating. He still insists on paying, despite Mason arguing that he can pay, and then he insists on walking Mason home.

“You sure you’re not going to fall asleep walking back to your place?” Mason asks, bumping their shoulders together as they walk down the street.

Jack catches his arm, tucking his hand securely in the crook of Mason’s elbow. “Promise I won’t,” he says, yawning.

Mason lets his silence speak for him.

“I don’t live that far,” Jack insists. “I’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Mason says, using his free hand to pat Jack’s where he’s holding Mason’s arm. “If you say so.”

Jack leans over to rest his cheek on Mason’s shoulder, just briefly. “You’re sweet,” he mumbles, then he stands up straight again.

Jack accompanies Mason up to his apartment and waits for him to go inside, scuffing his toe against the fraying carpet in the hallway.

Mason leans against his door. “I had a good time tonight,” he says softly. “It was fun. Thank you.” He smiles. “Thanks for not being weird about, um, when I said I love you.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “It was cute,” he admits. He blushes. “I like you a lot, Mason. I want to do this again if you do, too.” 

“I do,” Mason says, “I really, really do.” It’s a bit overwhelming, how much he wants to, but he has a feeling Jack feels the same way.

Jack’s eyes are so bright, even in the dimly lit hallway. He pulls something out of his pocket; a crumpled card for Wheeler’s with a phone number scrawled on one side in blue pen. He presses it into Mason’s hand. “Plus, you know where to find me,” he says.

Mason slips the card into his pocket beside his phone. “Likewise,” Mason says. He looks at Jack’s mole, and this time he can’t stop himself from reaching out to cup his cheek, brushing a thumb over the mole.

Jack looks at him, brown eyes huge, and doesn’t move away. 

Mason leans in slow, giving Jack ample time to stop him if he doesn’t want this, and he presses his lips to Jack’s cheek, right over his mole. Jack gives him a bemused look for that when he pulls away, but his eyes are soft.

“Sweet,” Jack says, and he curls a hand around the back of Mason’s neck, fingertips rubbing through the hair at his nape. “But do you want to try that properly?” There’s no pressure in his voice and his grip on Mason is loose, just—present. He licks his lips, like Mason needs some help to figure out what he means.

“Why not?” Mason teases. 

Before Jack can retort, Mason leans in to kiss him gently. It’s a sweet, closed-mouth thing that makes Mason’s entire body feel warm. Jack’s lips curve into a smile against Mason’s. It’s a little tricky to kiss while smiling, but they make it work.

Jack’s breath is warm against Mason’s skin when he finally pulls away. “As fun as it’d be to stay the night,” Jack says, grinning, and _ god _Mason wants that now that he’s mentioned it, “I want to take this slow. I want—Is it stupid to say I want to do this properly?”

Mason pinches his cheek gently. “‘Course not,” he says. He pauses. “Well, maybe it’s a little stupid. But I want the same.”

“Good,” Jack says firmly. He’s only an inch or so shorter than Mason, but he does his best to look up through his lashes. “Kiss me goodnight?” 

Mason can do that.

Later that night, Mason sends a text to the newest contact in his phone. _ Thanks again for the waffles, but I’m paying next time. _

Jack answers right away.

_ Dream on, lover boy. _

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this leetol bit of goofery. super glad rosie didn't get traded yesterday because if he'd been traded before i could post this.... well i'd be mad. also shoutout 2015 line plus kc for all being idiots!
> 
> also the line about rosie putting the straw between his teeth is a reference to his episode of tailor and the jets when he had his first ever slurpee and was really horny with the straw
> 
> [tumblr](https://symphony7inamajor.tumblr.com)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/symphony7inAmaj)


End file.
